


the beauty of storms

by landiskilgore



Series: for whom the bell tolls [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Fever Dreams, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Other, Post-Canon, mentions of Bell's family, part one of a series, post-solovetsky, sisters bonding together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29017452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landiskilgore/pseuds/landiskilgore
Summary: "I don't just wish you rain, beloved - I wish you the beauty of storms."- John Geddes, "A Familiar Rain"
Series: for whom the bell tolls [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128773
Kudos: 10





	the beauty of storms

**Author's Note:**

> so, this one is a particularly brief one, but there's a reason for that. that reason being that it's a prologue to a series i'm writing about dearly beloved bell, because i really feel like the game left so much room for interpretation and i couldn't help but think about her life before meeting adler and joining the cia, even way before her time in the kgb.
> 
> while writing this, i listened to the instrumental of 'hands held high' by linkin park, i feel like it really complements the overall mood of this story. highly recommend you give it a listen while you're reading, if that's your thing :)
> 
> moving on, i hope you enjoy this brief little thing and of course, don't feel afraid to let me know your thoughts below :)

**_i wish you the beauty of storms._ **

* * *

**Vologda, Russia - March 8th, 1979**

_Today is a lovely day._

Snow falls to the ground amidst blue skies, and with it comes an excitement, anticipation expanding within her heart. Today is a lovely day, and not just for the beautiful weather that Mother Russia brings once again—it is for sweet Anya, who will no doubt be just as excited once she awakens to such beauty on her birthday.

Just for the occasion, she decides to wear a pale dress, made of the softest material and flows to her feet, accidentally getting caught within its light tresses as she makes haste for Anya's room, almost knocking aside poor Leonid (no doubt having disturbed Mama and Papa down the halls, she's sure) in her mad dash through walls strewn with paintings and sculptures, feet rapid against hardwood floors until finally reaching her destination.

_"голубые глаза!"_

Fists flying wildy against the door, hoping to startle its inhabitant awake and arouse excitement for the imminent celebrations.

"Wake up, _голубые глаза,_ it's your birthday! We must prepare for the celebrations Papa will arrange for you!"

Bouncing on the balls of her feet, adrenaline rushing in tidal waves, steadily increasing the longer she stands there, awaiting a beautiful smile and fiery eyes so filled with life in a world that is abandoning its own vitality with every passing day. Papa's hair is grey, wrinkles now crease his temples and the corners of his eyes—he deserves to enjoy a beautiful day, with a daughter that softens his war-torn heart and spirits to lighten his eyes.

A gust of wind rustles her hair, her dress, signaling an open door. Indeed, when she turns back, standing there with wild tufts of black hair and _stunning, ethereal blue eyes_... is sweet Anya, no longer a little girl with dreams vaster than the skies, but carries resounding ambitions and a wisdom of which she will never understand herself.

Despite Anya being the youngest of the three children, she is the tallest, nearly as tall as Papa or Leonid. Her voice is as serene as an angel's voice, and although she's never met an angel, she's sure they would look like Anya, sound like her and act as warm and loving as her little sister. A standard for angels in the heavens to live up to.

"How long before we must attend mass?" Her fiery eyes, just stifled by exhaustion, are now daunting and filled with mischief.

"We have long enough," she replies with the same airy mischief in her tone.

Doesn't prepare her for a sudden, crushing pressure, knocking the wind out of her lungs and forcing an obnoxiously loud yelp from her throat as Anya yanks her through the door by the arm, lifting her for all of three seconds, before she feels firm weight underneath her body. Sheets entangle her feet in the struggle, Anya's angelic laugh echoing through the baby blue-tinted room, out through the window, slightly ajar and allowing some cool air to billow in.

"In three months, I will be married," Anya says, voice lowering to a whisper, and while there's eagerness, an anxious lilt is present. "And in three months, you will be back in Moscow... doing whatever it is soldiers do when there is a war to be fought."

"Not a day goes by that I do not miss you while I am gone," she reassures, holding her little sister's warm and gentle hands in the hopes the action will grant some level of comfort. "And your fianceé, he is a fine man. I've no doubt he will love you and care for you, just as you've always deserved."

Anya's grip tightens, almost unbearably so. "I miss you more than words can ever ascribe, _Ib_. I just wish the war was done, so that you wouldn't have to go... so that Alek could return home and Papa wouldn't be so ill—"

"—We always come home in time for your birthday, _голубые глаза._ Don't you ever forget that."

An overwhelming desire to embrace sweet Anya, to stifle her worries and fears for the days ahead. A war to be fought will soon become a war won. Alek can return home, find himself a quiet life with a wife who will cherish his scars. Papa can live out the rest of his days with a heart at-rest and a mind no longer caught in a neverending, suffocating war of its own, give Mama some peace of mind as well. Anya can marry the man of her dreams, become the good woman that she knows her sister to be.

As for herself... all she's ever known is war. It is in her bones, with inked skin and scarred hands as a testament to a life outside of all that is good and light in this world.

Perhaps she will die with such dignity, as a devoted soldier who lived and breathed for Mother Russia, until her last dying breath. Perhaps she will endure, become another footnote in history along with those who survived, who never truly buried their demons with their dead comrades. Something she hopes is not in her future.

Fate is not an absolute that dictates her, guides her down the path it believes is right and just. Her path is hers to carve out, to create a pilgrimage that speaks immeasureable altruism and generosity. She hopes people will remember her not for her role in an inevitable war, but for her choice to live a life in the service of others, to be known for her capacity for good rather than her apathy towards death and destruction—a daughter who just wanted to appease a dying father's wish.

Reaching across the bed, giving her sister a firm embrace, solidified with a burning, fiery feeling in the pit of her stomach that travels towards her heart, her soul.

A small place for a sliver of Anya's soul to rest within, never to be forgotten.

"Anya, wherever I am... wherever the war takes me, it will never take my love for you away. No matter how far I am, even if I could be on the other end of the world. Even with my absence, I know Mama will enjoy your chamomile and blueberry tea in my stead. I know Papa will hold your hand at night and speak your nightly prayers, in my honour and God's. Alek and I will come back, and with any luck... you'll be there waiting," she says, pressing twin kisses into Anya's knuckles.

And so she _smiles_ , fingers pressing into her tattoos, seamlessly woven within soft skin and painting a kaleidoscope of grey thorns, blue thistles (Anya's favourite flower) and blackbirds, a personal contribution from Alek before his deployment. Dearly beloved brother Alek...

"I will always be here," Anya says, voice intaking sudden, grave seriousness. "I will wait through beautiful storms, darkest nights and cold wars for as long as I live, if there's a chance you and Alek will safely return home, where you belong, I will wait. And if I can't wait... well, you know I will hunt you down and bring you home, no matter of my love for Mother Russia—for it doesn't outweigh my love for my family."

And so, they embrace... for what _shouldn't_ feel like the final time (and yet, the feeling is impossible to shake, even as they dance the night away with hearty spirits on their tongues and a preference of disregard for the cruel, cruel world beyond the walls of home). And she secretly enjoys, reveling in the utter joy that such a beautiful day has brought them, something known within the lining of her heart, in the balance between her mind and soul. Enjoying a beautiful day in the honour of a beautiful soul like Anya.

_Anya, a woman of few words and many a kind actions. Anya, who will always wait through beautiful storms, darkest nights and cold wars._

_Anya... who deserved the best happy ending that fate was too terrified to afford her._

* * *

**somewhere near Solovetsky Islands, USSR - March 16th, 1981**

_Anya._

A name long forgotten, reimbursing itself within the recesses of her mind, sobbing through bloodied saliva—an action which brings forth _indescribable agony_ , bursting through her chest as it blossoms throughout her thoracic cavity and makes way for her throat. Hints of grim skies through an ajar window, blue drapes rustling lightly against the vitality of winter. And with her sobs, it brings... voices. Distant, yet incredibly vague. Almost impossible to decipher from memory.

Consciousness fades like a flickering light that's constantly on the verge of dying. Every crevice and inch of her _aches_ and _screams_ , war-worn and exhausted from a fight so recent, it might as well have been yesterday.

**_It was never personal._ **

**_Searing pain inbues itself in her thoracic cavity, pierces her throat as red warmth slips between her fingers. Cold morning on a beautiful sunny day, blood drying against soft, inked skin. Against matted brown hair. A solemn kiss to her forehead... then light gives way to dark. Dying on a rock in Solovetsky._ **

_Oh... so it was yesterday._

" _дерьмо._ Remain still. Can't tear your stitches so soon."

_How can she feel such excruciating agony when she was so... hollow? When the sun itself couldn't breathe warm life into her lungs?_

"She is awake."

Curses and huffs of air are what follows, heavy footsteps approaching her, she's sure. All she can do is breathe, figure out what it means to be alive again. Warm, gentle hands lingering on hers, twin kisses to her knuckles (just as she gave to Anya back home... but this doesn't look like home) and whispered promises to return from a life amidst destruction and anger, where such things are easily extinguished with bullets like water to a flame.

_But... but it felt so **real.** Home. Anya... oh, sweet Anya—_

Someone kneels against her bedside, a lone enveloping hand grasping her jaw as gently as possible, even if the rough consistency of this person's hand speaks that of a soldier, of someone very unaware of what kindness feels like. Tilting her head upwards, making eye contact with a pair of starkly contrasting eyes—one opaque and one blue.

_So blue it reminds her of Anya... Anya and her sweet, kind blue eyes._

"Not so weak and fragile as I remember. Good. Keep a watchful eye on her condition," his voice seems to be addressing someone behind him, even if he's looking right at her.

"What do you think I've been doing?" Another voice (Russian, perhaps?) responds, heavy with contempt. "Two bullets in the heart and throat are bad business, my friend."

_Two? She was so sure she pulled the trigger..._

The masked man releases her, standing at his full height and looming over her lethargic body, hood drawn just enough to conceal his unusual eyes as he stands. "Now that she's awake, he must be informed of her recovery. I trust you won't disappoint me in my absence by letting her die."

"I've no choice in the matter, regardless. I'll inform you if anything changes. Give my humble regards."

Her vision, previously heavy and suffocating under intense vertigo, begins to regain clarity, recognizing her new surroundings as a small wooden cabin. Evidently near water, judging from the cacophony of choppy waves crashing against rock and murres singing their gravelly songs as it carries across the sad grey sky. Her bed pressed against a wall, with the open window rustling a gentle breeze and light spray of the sea against her pale cheek.

Someone else—shorter than the man before, but with a head of black hair and glasses perched atop his nose (conveniently hiding a scar almost identical to the one across the bridge of her nose)—steps forward, but doesn't kneel like the masked man did.

Questions... there's so many on the tip of her tongue, yet her throat burns with disuse and a subtle sensation of _stitches_ across the side of it, her jugular.

"You will survive, my dear girl. But before you do, I insist that you must rest. It is going to be long night ahead, I believe," he says, bringing a cold hand to her forehead, gently brushing away her hair. "I will give you something to help you sleep. Do not move or you will tear your stitches."

Reaching to a table next to her, picking up a glass of water and dropping something small, white and circular into the clear liquid. It immediately dissolves, upon which he lifts her chin just so, bringing the glass to her parched lips and tilting it just enough for a steady stream to hit her tongue. Pure _euphoria_ rushes down her throat, even if it stings while swallowing such large gulps, but after having death so close, surely he can forgive her impatience.

Once the glass is empty and there's a noticeable strength overtaking her lethargy, he sets it down and reaches for a nearby book on a shelf—a Thomas Harris novel, one she hasn't read yet, _Hannibal—_ settling into a nearby chair with an exasperated sigh.

"I will be here when you wake," he reassures, voice remaining even and steady, untarnished by emotion.

There is something about the man in the chair across from her. As there is about the masked man with unusual eyes. A familiarity that's lost on her, no doubt a lasting result of MK-Ultra, something she's afraid may take _years_ of correction and care to undo, if at all. Whoever they are, they chose to save her life instead of toss her corpse into the ocean, and that alone puts her in utmost debt to them, despite the uncertainty surrounding their true intentions.

As of last night, she is an enemy of both countries; America and Russia. Two countries she will never be able to call home again, and if made aware of her supposed resurrection, will undoubtedly attempt to end it once again.

With sleep clinging to her bones, beckoning her forth into a dreamless, fitful rest, something appalling and terrifying festers within her chest. A realization, an acknowledgement.

_Her time had passed, but Fate wasn't finished with her yet._

_Perhaps, when she wakes, she'll understand why._

**Author's Note:**

> ok so im aware that hannibal was published wayyy after 1981, but that doesn't stop me and it won't stop bell either XD
> 
> again, i hope you guys enjoyed this little thing and i can't wait to share the series with you all once i've laid out some solid outlines and set my plan for it in motion. thank you again for reading!


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